


Beautiful Silence

by ShatterinSeconds



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe- Spy AU, Assassin Lance, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pining Lance (Voltron), Tags will be added, basically everyone is a spy, everyone is in their twenties, klance, minor shallura, spy lance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-08-22 20:13:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8299267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShatterinSeconds/pseuds/ShatterinSeconds
Summary: “Ah, so the jokes are over now. Time to be serious, right?”“As you will soon find out, I am always serious,” Lance replies, already walking over to the door. He wraps twice, and a guard on the other side opens it with a click.“That was another joke, right?” Keith asks, gray eyes narrowing as he watches Lance hold open his cell door like a gentlemen.  (AU where Lance is a spy/assassin)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I said it before and I'll say it again, it's really stupid of me writing another multi chapter fic. But this idea wouldn't leave me alone. I was in dire need for some spy!Lance.
> 
> Ps. You can find me on my tumblr, shatterinseconds, if you ever want to talk:)

Lance changes the gait of his walk to hide the gun stuffed in the waistband of his jeans. He allows his baggy gray shirt to fall freely, concealing the bulge. Pretending to brush a lock of brown hair behind his ear, his finger pass over the small communication device tucked away in his ear. He hears the sharp, quick beep of it turning on.

“Lance, Lance, can you hear me?” comes Pidge’s voice, crackling through the small speaker. 

He angles his head. “I can.” Lance speaks quickly and quietly, lips barely parting from one another. His dark blue eyes flick from side to side as he steps out from the doorway and onto the crowded street.

He easily blends in with the crowd, moving in the same direction as the larger mass of swirling colors. The cross walk sign blinks on, illuminating a dotted figure in motion. With a beat of his heart, his foot leaves the sidewalk, bumping into the pavement as he begins his trek across the street. The cars grumble, waiting and wanting to speed again. He watches the drivers, the way they drum their hands on the steering wheel and glance at the light hanging above Lance’s head, silently coercing it to slide to green.  

“That’s great. But if you don’t hurry, you’re going to be late-- Lance! That was uncalled for. Asshole.”

His middle finger continues to scratch at his head, in plain view where his partner can fully see the gesture from her vantage point. “Stop nagging.”

Lance hears her grumble; it rumbles its way into his ear. “I’ll stop nagging when you finally show up on time for an assignment.”

He smirks as he steps onto the sidewalk again, narrowly missing a fresh piece of chewed gum stuck to the concret. “And yet, I always manage to complete my missions. Besides, these gala things always start a few minutes late.”

“Speaking of a gala, where the hell are your formal clothes.”

“Relax, Pidgeon.” Yes, it’s true that Lance had almost forgotten his clothes, but a fellow agent is dropping them off in the bathroom in the place where the event is held. At least, he hopes so; if not, it will only be a minor inconvenience.    

“I told you to dress up, dumbass. What if Hunk wasn’t going to be there tonight for clean up? Then what would you have done?”

“The world always works in my favor.”

“Unfortunately, I know.”

Lance ignores her sarcasm, instead allowing his mind to be submerged in awe as he glances up at the place--more like palace--where the gala is being held. Stone arches loom above him, rising high in the sky, its ancient, weathered stones not even cracking. Twin stone lions roar back at him, their white coats gleaming in the rapidly fading sun. Columns frame stained glass windows. And a grand oak door awaits him. A majestic palace hidden by time, skyscrapers, and smog of the city.

“Pidge, radio silence until I’m in position.”

“Roger.”

Quickly spotting the flow of people in their long, flowing dresses and pressed suites, he flies up the marble stairs, reaching one of the security officers. The dark skinned man holds up a hand, pausing Lance in his movements.

“I’m sorry, Sir, but you can’t enter.”

Biting his lip, Lance responds with, “I am so sorry to bother you. But I think my three year old niece just ran in there. I promised her mother I wouldn’t lose her again.”

Silently, the guard parrots the word ‘again’. “I didn't see a little girl.”

“Please, Mister,” he begs, needing a way in. “Ah! I think I just saw her go down that hallway.” He blindly waves in the direction beyond the open doors.

The guard sighs, looking at Lance than at the long line of actually attendees in front of him. The man pinches the bridge of his nose. “Be quick.”

Lance rushes in, not wanting the older man to change his mind. He calls out for ‘Ally,’ a name he made up the second he steps onto the red velvet rug. When the security guard is out of sight and range, Lance ceases his calls, slipping into the nearest bathroom.

The walls, the floor, the stalls, the  _ couch,  _ all mock Lance as he passes them. The bathroom has to be bigger than his apartment, and much cleaner too. The beige tiles are untouched by scuffs and particles of tracked in dirt. His nose twitches as he snatches a faint hint of lavender out of the air. 

A man blinks at him as he passes in front of the spotless mirror. The figure is painted in the same smooth tan skin as Lance, and holds the same shade of eye and hair color. But his mirrored image begins to ripple, changing into someone different. He’s happier now, not burdened by the countless missions. And younger. The Lance in his teens, before his life took a different route off a cliff, stares back at him.

When he frowns, the mirror continues to smile. Leaving behind lost memories, Lance’s eyes soon drift to the floor where he spots a bag hidden behind the decorative trash can. The plastic rustles as his nimble fingers work to undo the knot. He is rewarded with a suite and tie and dress pants.

“Thank you, Hunk,” he mutters. “I owe you one.”

Lance steps out of the bathroom a new man as a new facade, a new character to play, takes hold. One with enough importance to have been personally invited to this event. Water coats his fingers as he slides them through his hair, brushing it off his forehead. The blue tie squeezes his neck as he tightens it. The gun continues to dig into his back.

“Pidge, balcony still the best option?”

“That’s still correct,  _ Lancelot _ .” A snicker follows her words.

“Goddamit, Pidge. It just sounds insulting when you say it.” Lance can practically hear her smirk.

“You’re looking snappy. Good to see you have some class.”    

Lance flicks his eyes to a security camera at the end of the dark hall. He salutes her as he passes under the camera. “Watch my six?”

“I always do.”

The balcony is void of people. The white marble terrace pokes out over the ballroom. Below him, multiple tables and chairs are scattered across the floor, and many people mill around them. Drinking their pre speech champagne and chatting with long lost friends. Beyond them lies a stage, decorated in purple cloth stamped with the Galra Corp.’s dark purple symbol. The podium stands proudly in the center with a few chairs behind it.

Everything is set for Zarkon’s arrival, except well, Zarkon himself. 

Lance’s eyes lazily trace the floor, absorbing the people below. Their movements and mannerisms, anything he can emulate during a future mission. He catches Hunk’s large figure, smartly dressed. He wants to signal his friend, but he knows any suspicious movements could get him or Hunk caught, killed, or even tortured. 

Lights begin to flicker, and like moths to a flame, everyone is drawn to their table in an orderly fashion. The chatter ceases, only the walls seem to be talking with their blazing lights.

“Get ready,” Pidge whispers in his ear. 

An older lady, with white hair and a red scar running from the corner of her mouth to her chin, steps onto the stage. Her fingers curl around the podium’s edge; from here, even Lance can see that this lady sharpened her fingernails into points. 

A surprisingly sultry voice follows after the woman opens her mouth. “We are honored that you were able attend tonight's events. But sadly we have a change of plans. Zarkon regrets that he will not be able to be here tonight--” hushed whispers, and Lance’s own gasp, ascend, filling up the empty space in the ballroom. “--But he has sent the next best person to deliver his message and wishes. I present to you, Zarkon’s son.”

A figure steps hesitantly onto the stage; Lance’s breath is taken from him and held prisoner. This man has everything but the harsh lines and brutal eyes of his father. Inky black hair frames his face and curls around his neck, not quite reaching his shoulders. Gray eyes dart around, looking at everyone and everything in the room. But his eyes don’t lift high enough, missing Lance and his hand holding an unholstered gun. Soft pink lips part, but the man-- _ Zarkon’s son _ \--still doesn’t speak. 

Lance’s heart harshly pumps against his chest. “Who the hell is this fucker?”

“Oh boy, that’s not Zarkon, that’s his son!”

“Yeah, thanks, Pidge. I understood that much. But I’m supposed to be taking out Zarkon, not this... this beautiful man!” His cheeks color a deep red.

“Is keeping it in your pants going to be a problem, Lance? Because I  _ will  _ come and throw you over the balcony.”

He sputters, but otherwise keeps his cool. He begins to store some choice words to use on his partner when he meets her later. “I can’t shoot him!” he says instead, his own voice piercing his wayward thoughts. Eyes widen as Lance continues to look at the man, his red tie the only splash of color on him. 

“You came here to complete your mission. Reports say Zarkon’s son is just as bad as him. So you’re still doing the world a favor.”

Trying to formulate words, a pained grunt is the only sound Lance can utter. No arguments float to the top of his mind. Lance sighs, closing one eye and raising the gun.  _ Take the shot _ , his mind whispers to him, and the man’s head finally comes into a perfect view. The man seems to tilt his head at the right angle, just slightly upward, and suddenly Lance’s body locks. As his finger hovers over the trigger, steel gray eyes land on Lance for the first time since this man walked onto the stage. A release of air penetrates the stiff silence surrounding him. 

Lance presses the cold trigger. For the first time in his career, he misses.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave comments and kudos:)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm planning to update this story on Sundays but probably not every Sunday.
> 
> Thanks so much for all the comments and kudos and everything; it means the world to me:D
> 
> Hope you enjoy this chapter!

Once in awhile, Lance imagines his life moving in slow motion. The way his finger balances on the trigger just long enough to release a breath; how his eyes easily connect with gray ones, electricity soaring through the current. Then his finger bends and the metal clicks as it's pushed back. The side of the gun gently brushes against his cheek, kissing him softly as it jerks back. The bullet rockets out of the barrel, floating and flying through the air at the same time. Lance is able to trace its path, and the second he blinks, it's over and the screaming begins.

* * *

Lance’s ears continue to ring long after the bullet had been fired. A dark spot, inches from the man’s head, penetrates the stone wall with a sharp pop. To his credit, Zarkon’s son doesn’t even flinch, just merely brushes a lock of dark hair out of his eyes. 

“What was that, Lance? Hunk’s telling me you missed. You never miss!” Pidge’s frantic voice punctures his moment of silence.

“I uhh.. I...” His tongue runs across the back of his teeth as he struggles to form words. His eyes are still locked onto gray ones. The man behind the podium quirks his lips, nodding slightly, almost in admiration.  _ A strange reaction, _ Lance’s mind comments,  _ for someone who almost died _ . 

“Lance, get the fuck out of there. Guards are already on the stairwell.”

He seriously contemplates jumping over the balcony, but he knows one or both of his ankles would not survive the fall, leaving him stranded and helpless. But he did scout out two exits before. The way he came up--which now his ears pick up on the pounding of footsteps and the rattling of the gold plated handle--or the air ducts. 

Breaking eye contact and stuffing the gun back into his pants, Lance leaps up from his crouch, running to the shadowed corner. His fingers work quickly to pry the grate off the wall. It clatters in protest but the commotion and screams of the people below swallow the sound of his escape.

The duct looks small, dark, and very uncomfortable. He starts to fold himself until he’s small enough to fit, having to crawl on his hands and knees, but luckily not his stomach. Lance pulls the grate back on just as the door forcefully flings open, banging into the wall with a crack. Light filters through the slits of the grate, breaking up his features.

Daring not to breathe, Lance silently watches security guards funnel onto the carpeted balcony, but in their haste, they do not glance in Lance’s direction. When he’s content that he won’t be followed, he begins his long trek up the duct, collecting cobwebs and dust balls on his clothes. 

“Lancelot, I’ve lost visual on you; where’d you go?”

Pidge’s voice screams inside the closed space, echoing off the walls and bouncing behind and in front of him. “Speak quietly. I’m in the air duct.” Lance continues to pad on, slowly crawling his way to freedom. “And now I’m at a crossroads,” he sighs. He can either go left or straight ahead, each way looks equally dark and dismal. 

“I’ve uploaded the schematics, and I think I can tell where you are. You want to take the left; it’s long and will take you to a hopefully empty hallway. Once you’re out, there should be an exit around the corner.”

“Thanks.”

He loses track of time in the duct, his mind bombarded with images of that man on the stage, out of place near all that purple. The one with the horrible haircut--seriously, was that a mullet?--but with the beautiful eyes and complexion. A sly smile sneaks its way onto his face. If Lance had a different life and they met in a completely different situation (say a bar and not on an  _ assassination  _ mission), he might have invited him home or on a date.  

His fingers scrape against another grate, the noise slapping his thoughts away. The slits are smaller than the ones on the balcony, and though he squints his eyes, trying desperately to see where he will tumble into, the area looks dark and indistinguishable. Lance taps on his ear piece.

“Pidge, Pidge, come in.”

Nothing, not even static, wanders its way into Lance’s ear. Not waiting for a reply, he punches the grate, sending it crashing to the floor. And as the rattling settles, he hears the unmistakable click of multiple safeties being lifted. 

_ Fuck this shit _ , Lance mumbles in his mind, he’s had a rotten day. He crawls out of the duct, ignoring the massive figures of the two guards holding onto precariously pointed handguns. Oh, great, he’s landed into their break room. Freshly brewed coffee floats through the air, and he spies a half eaten muffin on the table. His stomach rumbles at the sight. 

But his view of the pastry is obscured when a female guard steps in front of him. A dust of powder clings to her upper lip; Lance swallows a laugh. Why the hell were these guards eating instead of searching for him? Sucks to be them.

“Hands up!” the woman bellows at the same time a familiar voice calls out,

“Hey!” 

Still on his knees, Lance tilts his head to the side. “Oh shit.” 

Above him stands the dark skinned security officer from the front, the one that allowed him in. “Find your niece yet?” the man asks, saturating the question with sarcasm.

“Actually,” Lance replies, “I haven’t. I thought she went into the air ducts…” He ends with a cheeky smile and the barrel of the guard’s gun placed against his temple.

A shiver wracks Lance’s body, as sweat beads up on his forehead. “That’s not going to work this time, buddy.” The guard signals his partner, “Call in, say we’ve caught the infiltra--”

Faster than lighting, Lance leaps up, swinging his leg into the guard’s knee. A sharp crack and a pained yelp has Lance briefly wondering if he broke the man’s leg. He kicks the man’s handgun into the air duct, and quickly rotates his body, his leg catching the female guard in the head. She falls with a clean thump, blood seeping out from a thin cut on her temple, staining her blond hair.    

Lance puts his ear to the door, listening for commotion on the other side. Hearing nothing, besides his own heavy breathing, Lance opens the door; it creaks as the hinges groan in protest. He steps onto the dark wooden floor boards, calming his breathing and heart beat. 

The hall winds far in two directions, and Lance is stuck, swinging his head back and forth. Left or right? Lights brighten each direction; both ways are equally inviting. One last time he calls for Pidge, but still no one answers. His fingers wiggle into the pockets of his dress pants, the pads of his fingers passing over the cold metal of a coin. A quarter sits in his hands, heads up.

“Okay,” he mumbles to himself, leaning against the wall. “Heads I go left, tails I go right.”

With a sharp ping, the quarter is launched into the air, twirling over and over again, reflecting every wayward ray of light from the lamps. Lance claps his hands around the coin, flipping it over one more time. When he lifts his hand, Washington’s head stares up at him.

“Left it is.” And he races down the corridor, not looking back. 

It’s when he rounds the second turn that Lance spies him in the corner, his back facing the rest of the empty hall.  _ This is too easy! It’s a trap!  _ Lance’s mind urgently warns himself. But of course, the rest of him doesn’t listen. Stepping quietly over the carpet, Lance taps the man on the shoulder. He’s too startled to even realize what’s happening.

“You’re coming with me,” Lance says, with as much authority as he can muster. 

But the shock has worn off his target and Lance meets the full force of snark. “With the person who tried to shoot me? No thanks. Please leave and uh.. Thanks for coming. Have a nice day,” the man responds with a smirk, already pushing past Lance.

“No, nope, not today. You  _ are  _ coming with me.” He shoots his hand out blindly, grabbing onto the man’s shoulder. The safety of the gun clicks, and Lance presses the icy tip to the small of the man’s back.

“You’re coming with me,” Lance repeats, deathly quiet, his mouth inches from the man’s ear. “Or I will finish what I came here to do.”

“Please, you probably came here to kill Zarkon. I’m not Zarkon, so how about you just let me go and I’ll forget about this.”

“You’re his son, same difference.”

“Not to me!”

With an unexpected sharp kick to the knee, Lance stumbles to ground, wincing as the pain begins to vibrate throughout his whole body. The gun sides away, somewhere to his left, but Lance doesn’t care. The man protectively holds his hands in front of his face, forming fists. He bounces on both his feet, suddenly spinning with a roundhouse kick to Lance’s head.

But Lance is able to duck in time, and the power from the kick hits him only as a gust of air. “Son of a bitch!” he yells, shakily standing on his feet, his right leg throbbing.  

“Ten years of martial arts practice. You learn a thing or two.”

“You also learn a thing or two from wrestling with older siblings.”

Before the man can voice a questioning ‘what?’, Lance barrels into his stomach, locking his arms around the man’s torso. Unstable, they both fall backwards onto the ground. The man’s hard chest does nothing to lessen the impact; Lance’s teeth still rattle as he falls onto Zarkon’s son. But the man’s head slams against the floor, narrowly missing the sharp edge of the chair rail. The gray of his eyes swims, dazed. Up close, Lance mentally notes, the man's eyes hold a slight navy tint to them, one that can't be seen from far away. They're beautiful. 

“Come on now. Up!” Lance says, recovering quickly. He grabs the wrists of the man, pulling him to his feet. 

“I won’t tell you anything,” Zarkon’s son spits. 

“Never say never.” Lance starts to drag the man to the side entrance where a red, illuminated EXIT sign pulses like a beacon.

He misses the man rolling his eyes. “I didn’t say ‘never.’”

“It was implied.” Lance shrugs. “And stop dragging your feet.” He continues to pull the man out the door, holding it open with his foot so both of them can pass. 

Outside, as a cold gust of wind rocks Lance back on his feet, he spots the small black getaway car. The tinted windows hide anyone inside, but Lance knows it’s empty. Hopefully Pidge and Hunk can find their own way out. Lance can’t wait around.

“What’s your name?” Lance asks, practically throwing the man into the backseat of the car. “I don’t want to keep calling you ‘Zarkon’s son.’” His fingers drum on the window as he watches his prisoner situate himself by slumping deep into the leather seats. 

A distasteful sneer winds its way onto the man’s face. “And please don’t. Ah, it’s Keith. Call me Keith.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave comments and kudos:)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance is literally the worst spy ever.

Inside the car, the air is unbreathable, thick with awkward silence and warranted tension. The engine mummers a faint harmony as Lance keeps his eyes on the road, only breaking when a red light glares at him. His earpiece and gun, thrown haphazardly onto the passenger seat, vault off the leather, landing with a thump on the floor as the car comes to a jerky halt.

“Wow, what a great driver you are!” Lance’s prisoner grunts from the backseat.

“Shut up. That light came out of nowhere.” He shifts, his blue eyes boring into the man--no, Keith. The man’s name is Keith. “How about you be productive and tie yourself up.”

“With what?” Keith snarks back. “I don’t see tie wraps or rope lying around.” He gestures to the large, completely empty backseat. 

Lance sneers. “Oh sorry about that inconvenience. I hadn’t planned on taking prisoners today.”

“Just concentrate on driving, asshole; you have a green light.” 

A loud angry honk from the car behind him startles Lance more than Keith’s voice snapping at him. He floors it, the gas pedal even with the floor. A loud ‘umph’ escapes from Keith as he is thrown to side when Lance quickly turns the wheel to make the right. Curse words, both in English and what may be Korean, spew from the prisoner’s mouth. From the corner of Lance’s eye, he watches as Keith cards a hand through mused hair. 

“Slow down, Speed Racer. Some people in this car want to live.”

“Yeah, and if I didn’t hesitate back there, you wouldn’t even have the chance to be complaining right now. And I would have peace and quiet.”

“Why didn’t you?”   


“Didn’t what?”

“Why. Didn’t. You. Shoot. Me?” Keith elaborates painfully slowly. “I’m not even wearing a bulletproof vest.”

“Because unlike some people--” a pointed glare is directed at Keith “--I am a kind and generous person.”  _ And you’re too beautiful to shoot,  _ Lance adds quietly in his head.

“Ah, so you call kidnapping people generous?”

Lance shrugs his shoulders. “What? I had a job to do; I couldn’t go back with nothing.”

“Again, your mission was about Zarkon. I am not Zarkon.”

“You’ve made that distinction obvious many times already. And I will repeat myself too, you are his  _ son _ . That’s the only reason I need.”

“You’re so fucking full of yourself. Did you ever stop to think things aren’t always as they seem?”  

“Do you have a phone?” Lance interrupts their argument, storing Keith’s odd choice of phrasing deep in the caves of his memories.

Confused, Keith responds with “Yes, why? Do you want my number?”

“No.”  _ If I wasn’t kidnapping you, then  _ yes. “Give me.”

Surprisingly, Keith’s resistance to this order is minimal. And soon a caseless black iPhone is placed in the palm of his hand. Lance doesn’t even bother to turn it on. He throws Keith’s phone on the ground, shattering it with his foot, scooping up the pieces and scattering them out the window. “So no one can track you,” he explains, though he doesn’t have to.

“Gee, thanks for that. I was totally going to post a selfie of both of us on instagram.”

“I’m just doing my job.”

“Sadly.”

“Oh, stop pouting.”

Maturely, Keith sticks out his tongue, blowing a raspberry. Lance bites his tongue, forcefully forbidding himself from adding more flames to their conversation. His long fingers wrap around the leather steering wheel, finally concentrating on driving instead of the hotheaded prisoner in the backseat. In time, his foot slowly lifts off the gas pedal, easing them into a comfortable speed. 

Skyscrapers fade away to houses that fade away to open fields and long, winding roads. But Lance barely pays any attention to the change of scenery, content with focusing his eyes ahead, watching the crumbling paved road curve over the horizon. 

“Where the hell are you taking me?”

And before he can protest, Keith has plopped himself in the passenger seat, satisfied by fiddling with the radio dial until the latest pop hits hiss from the speakers.  _ ‘ _ _ You look like my next mistake,’ _ is the one line Lance is able discern from the metallic click of a gun.

“No, nope, not today. I don’t have time for this shit.” Blindly Lance reaches for the gun in Keith’s hand. The barrel is cold against the skin of his palm, and the rim etches grooves in his soft flesh. Because of Keith’s genuine surprise, Lance is able to tug the gun away without any resistance and throw it out the window. It cattlers onto the road, tumbling into a mound of dirt as the car speeds away. 

“Nice try,” Lance finally says, eyes still on the road disappearing under the car. 

_ ‘I'm dying to see how this one ends’ _

“Humph.” Keith leans his head against the pane of glass, gray eyes closed and breathing in time with the music. “You’re still the world’s worst spy.”

“Hey! I take offense at that.”

“Good,” Keith snaps, his lips quirking to the side, “You were supposed to.”

_ ‘You can tell me when it's over _

_ If the high was worth the pain’ _

“You shouldn’t be in the front,” Lance sighs. He finally glances at his companion once they come to an unnecessarily placed traffic light. The sun beams outline Keith’s profile, highlighting his inky hair and smooth skin. His pink lips pucker, twitching as if sensing Lance’s staring. 

“I don’t give a fuck.”

A tight smile spreads across Lance’s face. “I can clearly see that.”    

_ ‘Cause we're young and we're reckless _

_ We'll take this way too far’ _

Keith’s head tilts to the side, and with the sun positioned perfectly behind the window frame, when his eyes open his gray irises are painted gold in the sun’s fractured rays. “Where are you taking me?”

The car has begun to move again, without Lance’s knowledge. Autopilot taking over his motor controls while his mind was focused on something much more interesting and exquisite. It pains him to draw his eyes away from Keith and back onto the dull road. Words leave his mouth before he can call them back in. “I’m taking you to our base…” _Shit._ _Nice job, Lance_ , _now he totally thinks you’re an idiot._

_ That’s because you are,  _ a small, usually quite, part of his brain argues back.  __

Keith’s body jerks up, head swiveling to face Lance. His lips form into an infuriating grin. “Nice move, James Bond. You probably should have blindfolded me.”

“Just shut up and buckle up. Oh, and you’re lucky I like Taylor Swift,” is all Lance replies with. His fingers twirl a fat, round dial, the volume raising until it masks the roar of the engine.

_ ‘But I've got a blank space baby _

_ And I'll write your name’ _

* * *

To the naive eye, their base appears to be an old farm house. With a wrap around porch, chipping white paint, and a creaking rocking chair, empty and abandoned. The gravel pathway is currently being colonized by ugly weeds, and the grass, having no maintenance for sometime, can touch Lance’s knees. But at the right angle, with the clear blue sky and round, bright sun, the house and yard would make a perfect postcard. One he would proudly send to his family if he could.

“So did the government cut back on your funding or…?”

“From here on out no more cheeky words from you.” Lance has luckily found some spare tie wraps in the trunk, and the black plastic pinches his prisoner’s skin as he tightens it one more time around Keith’s wrists.  

Keith parts his mouth to speak, ignoring Lance’s command, but the wind whisks away his words. The breeze twirls through his long hair, tickling his cheeks. And when the wind falls silent, an ominous sign, a figure begins to march over from behind the house. Lance immediately recognizes the wild, light brown hair and short stature of Pidge. The scowl on her face does nothing to put Lance at ease. 

“H-hey, Pidge,” Lance stammers once she’s in range. “How are things?” 

“Oh, you know, they’re  _ fantastic.  _ By the way, thank you, Lance, for not waiting. We had to take a  _ taxi. _ ” Pidge adjusts her round glasses, light sliding across the lenses shielding her eyes. 

“I-I’m sorry. I couldn’t wait for you; guards were on my tail,” he says, his only point of defense.

Casting aside his argument with an eye roll, Pidge turns to a bored Keith watching the exchange. “Ah, you must be the person Lance got a boner for and couldn’t complete his mission.”

“Pidge! What the fuck?! Excuse me! For the record,” Lance continues to screech, unable to contain his voice from cracking, “I did not get a boner.”

A revengeful glint swirls in her amber eyes; even Keith takes a hesitant step back. “Hmm, what were your words, Lance? ‘Oh no, he’s hot’?”

_ That’s not even close,  _ Lance seethes silently in his mind. “You know perfectly well those weren’t my words.”  

“Maybe, maybe not. But Zarkon’s son won’t know the difference. Oh look, he’s blushing,” Pidge cackles, taking a step closer to study Keith. 

But Lance can’t tell if Keith is blushing red with embarrassment or red with anger. His gray eyes tell a story of murder. “Look here, midget, I do not appreciate being called Zarkon’s son. I have a nam--Ack!”

Falling into unconsciousness, Keith’s body tips forward, silently falling to the ground when Pidge steps away from him. But Lance’s quick reflexes propel him forward, lacing his arms under Keith and allowing him to rest against Lance’s body. His skin is surprisingly warm in contrast with his cold color pallet, and Lance resists the urge to melt as flames race up his arms.  

“Why did you do the Vulcan neck pinch? Now we have to drag him back to HQ.”

“One, the move is not called that, Nerd, and second,  _ you’re  _ dragging his ass back.” Pidge saunters back to the house before Lance’s mouth can fully drop.

* * *

When Keith finally wakes, the first item he’s conscious of is the rough sheets chafing his skin as he tries to snuggle down into a unfamiliar flat pillow.  _ This isn’t happening.  _ The usual rays of sun don’t bombard his face in the early morning, if it’s even morning. And the air smells sterile, heavy with lemon cleaner. But if he concentrates, an unmistakable wisp of the beach and the summer and the sea penetrates the overall scent of the room.

_ This isn’t happening. _

His eyes reluctantly pop open to discover tan skin and vibrant blue eyes inches away from his face. “Do you mind?” his voice rasps.   

Two quick blinks. “Sorry, just came to check on you.”

“That’s very considerate of you, considering your friend knocked me out.”

“Eh, you had that one coming.” The man--Larry? Lence? Lance?--yanks over a chair, the legs scraping against the floor with an ungodly howl. 

Sitting up for the first time, Keith realizes his cell is quite spacious. Dark gray concrete walls enclose him, but he has been given a desk and, obviously, a bed. The door is light blue; there’s no handle on the inside and Keith can clearly see a guard stationed outside, their large head covering half of the grated window.    

Lance continues to watch him as Keith arches his back, stretching his arms as he begins to tell his body to wake up. His hand rushes through tangled hair and his pale fingers immediately reach for the red hair elastic that’s surprisingly still encircling his wrist. With a flick of his hands, his bed head is smoothed into a small ponytail; short strands still surround his face.  

“What?” Keith innocently asks, tilting his head to the side.

“N-nothing.” Lance covers his mouth with his hand, cheeks a vibrant red beacon.

Rolling his eyes, Keith mumbles, “I’m going to die surrounded by idiots.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rest of the gang should hopefully be showing up next chapter:) And more Keith pov as well!
> 
> Song: Blank Space by Taylor Swift


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Laughing nervously* sorry about not updating for a long time… I kinda lost all motivation for this story. But hey I’m updating now, so yay!!
> 
> A big thanks to @Mystic_Mystic who really helped me find motivation for this story again!! She’s helped so much with ideas for the plot and editing this chapter. I am so excited for this story now. Check out her Voltron and Miraculous Ladybug stories; they’re amazing!!!  
> ____  
> The beginning of this chapter takes place before Keith’s pov at the end of the last chapter

Shiro is already seated at the conference table by the time Lance arrives; the fingers of his metal prosthetic tap away on the oak as he swivels back and forth in the chair. Sore from dragging Keith all the way to his cell, Lance’s joints protest as he loudly slumps into the chair right next to the older man. His head unceremoniously falls onto the table, startling Shiro from whatever daydream he had been in.

Lance closes his eyes, not wanting to experience the disappointed glare his team leader is most likely showing. Contrary to popular belief, Lance is quite aware that he fucked this one up. A reminder won’t help him right now. He is the best at what he does--this is fact, not a conceited thought--but no, no matter how much he tries to make himself into the perfect spy, he  _ always  _ fucks something up.

“What do you think’s going to happen?” Lance voices instead of the self-deprecating thoughts inside his head. His depleted tone is muffled by the wood. 

“We all make mistakes sometimes. You tried your best, Lance.”

A scowl mars his face as he finally directs his gaze towards Shiro. There is definitely pity in the man’s eyes; it may be small but it is there. “Ah, ah, ah, don’t you dare tell me that. You know I messed up; I know I messed up; everyone knows I messed up.”

“We’ve  _ all  _ messed up, I especially. Because of my mistakes, I lost my team members and my arm.” Subconsciously, Lance’s eyes drift down, the fluorescent lights highlighting the metal plating.

“That wasn’t your fault. We had a mole, and you were led straight into an ambush. I--I on the other hand was just distracted.”

“But you still thought on your feet, taking Zarkon’s son prisoner instead. The mission wasn’t a complete failure. We just need to adapt our strategy.”

_ He prefers to be called Keith,  _ Lance allows himself to think but he doesn’t say it out loud. “Thanks,  _ Dad _ . You do know how to make a guy feel better.”

“I can never tell if you’re being sarcastic or not.”

“I’m serious. Thank you.”

Within a few minutes the rest of their team enters. Allura flings the doors open first, her lips stretched into a thin line and her silvery white hair caught in a bun. Her blue eyes cut straight to Lance, mercilessly. The muscles on her arm bulge as she points a finger at him.

“My father’s not happy with you, so you better start thinking up a solid excuse fast.” Allura’s English accent is clipped. But the minute her gaze falls on Shiro, her face brightens with hidden pleasure, her eyes becoming glass pools.

“Hello, Shiro,” Allura’s voice softens as she takes her seat.

“Good afternoon, Miss Allura.”

Lance forces himself not to gag; honestly, they’re international spies for fuck’s sake. Just admit you like each other already! Lance’s thoughts scream inside his head as he glares at the two people in question. And maybe, just maybe, he’s a little jealous of Shiro. Because once upon a time--two years ago or has it been three already?--Lance tried to hit on Allura and sustained a broken wrist because of it.

But now, now Lance has a new beauty-- though more like a beautiful jerk--to pin after, so Lance subtly pushes Shiro’s chair closer to Allura’s. Neither of them notice.

Pidge and Hunk file in next. Unsurprisingly, Pidge slumps into a chair with no greeting, her hands typing away on her tablet.  Her round glasses are pushed up onto her head, her auburn hair a tangled mess. Lance flicks a ball of lint at her--one he’d been fiddling with before everyone arrived--but she swats it away, never looking away from her screen.   

Hunk, still adorned in formal wear like Lance, unbuttons his coat before finding a chair directly next to Lance. 

“Don’t say it, man,” he says just as Hunk opens his mouth.

“Say what?”

Lance stares at his friend, studying the features on his round face. “Something along the lines of ‘sucks to be you.’”

Hunk’s eyes pinch closer, almost as if he is angry but Hunk doesn’t get angry, at least, not at Lance. His mouth fully opens and closes before he responds again. “Lance, I was only going to ask how you’re doing. I think you’re getting me mixed up with Pidge over there.”

“Oh, well, I’m... alright. Thanks.”

“Even I’m not that cruel,” Pidge speaks up suddenly as if her mind is just catching up with the conversation that has been flowing around her. Amber eyes lock onto Lance. “I know you’re stressed, buddy, but we’ve got your back. We’re a team. Always remember that.”

Finally, Lance is able to express a small, meaningful smile. It lasts for second. A moment of desperate silence descends down upon the room as the twin metal doors fly open, banging into the wall. There’s probably a dent in the plaster now. 

“Agent McClain!” Alfor bellows, his lips taut and his blue eyes on fire. On instinct, everyone turns their heads in Lance’s direction, all eyes on him.

“Y-yes?” Lance stutters, “Uh, I mean ‘sir?’”

Alfor cards a frustrated hand through his white hair. “What the  _ hell  _ was that?”

“Well you see,” Lance gulps, excuses running through his head but he’s unable to capture a valid one, leaving him floundering. His tongue runs across his teeth looking for the words, barely finding any in time. “There were these guards, banging down the door, and I uh.. I lost my focus. Thus missing the shot. So I decided to salvage the mission by--”

“Capturing Zarkon’s son,” Alfor interrupts. 

“Keith!” Lance unexpectedly yells back. And the director, plus his teammates, lock onto him, again, and their gaze is even stronger this time around. He swallows, loosening the tie around his neck. “Uhh, sorry, D-Director. But uh, the prisoner likes to be called  _ Keith _ . Not ‘Zarkon’s son.’” 

“He spoke to you?” Anger or disbelief or something that is not full of rainbows and sunshine is hidden within Alfor’s tone. 

His eyes widening, Lance allows a few seconds to pass before responding. “What?”

“He willingly gave you information?”

“Y-yeah, I guess? Just his name though.”

Thoroughly uncomfortable, Lance wiggles in his seat. Alfor continues his scrutiny, his dark blue eyes boring into Lance, waiting for him to crack. “Seems like this was not so much of a failure after all. At least we’ll be able get some information out of him, and you’ll be able redeem yourself.”

“And what does that have to do with Lance,” Shiro replies cautiously, always looking out for his younger team members.

Alfor pinches the bridge of his nose. “Lance--Lance has a way with people. They seem to always want to talk when you’re around.” His gaze is once again directed at Lance. “Go wake the prisoner up.”

* * *

Lance unabashedly stares at Keith, and Keith tries not to stutter from the attention--the attention is not unwanted either, a small part of his brain sings. He directs his eyes to a crack in the dark wall, not Lance’s starlight features. The sheets are rumpled near his feet and fall from the bed when he swings his legs off the mattress.

“What are you gonna do with me?” Keith finally asks. He blows a lock of hair out of his face.

“We’re going on a little field trip down the hall.”

Keith’s brows narrow, his features pinching together. “Like I don’t know what that means. Interrogation, right? You’re here to interrogate me? God knows why they chose  _ you _ .”

“Excuse you, I happen to be a great interrogator. One of the best.” Keith is quite surprised to find Lance completely serious, his face void of humor and his eyes parched of all emotions.

“Ah, so the jokes are over now. Time to be serious, right?”

“As you will soon find out, I am always serious,” Lance replies, already walking over to the door. He wraps twice, and a guard on the other side opens it with a click.

“That was another joke, right?” Keith asks, gray eyes narrowing as he watches Lance hold open his cell door like a gentlemen. 

But the spy only winks, and grips onto Keith’s shoulders as he passes. His face twisting into a large smirk, he whispers quietly into Keith’s ear “What do you think?”

Actually, Keith doesn’t know what to think. This man, who he met less than twenty-four hours ago and whose hand grips his shoulder gently despite the weight of the situation, is complicated. A fool would be one way to describe him, but even Keith knows there is more to this man than the jokes and the way he seems to casually forget what must have been years of spy training about dealing with prisoners. No one has ever beaten Keith in hand-to-hand combat before, especially not that quickly; no one has plagued Keith’s mind as much as this man has. It’s been twenty-four hours, give or take, and almost every thought is captured by Lance, including his dreams. 

As they continue to walk down the hallway--the lights are dimmed, casting indescribable shadows onto the smooth, silver walls--Keith winces slightly. Everything is too bright, too stimulating. He wonders if he has a concussion. 

The guard that is stationed by his cell remains behind, and as the two of them drift further and further down the corridor, a flicker of a thought sparks in Keith’s mind. Once they turn the corner and disappear from the guard’s view, Keith rockets his elbow into Lance’s stomach, shoving him up against the wall, surprise adding the leverage he needed. A flash of anger sparks in Lance’s eyes as Keith’s forearm harshly smashes up against his throat, though not strong enough to choke him. A bruise may be left over though; a shame too, Lance has perfect skin. A snarl plasters itself onto Keith lips, his face inches away from Lance’s.

Their breaths intermingle with each other.  

“You’re going to get me out of here. I won’t cause any harm. I just want out of this place!” Lance’s lips seem to pucker, and for a second, the part of Keith’s brain that is not currently preoccupied with escaping realizes there is a splash of light freckles scattered on the bridge of Lance’s nose.  

“Think again, Pretty Boy,” Lance says before he unexpectedly knees Keith in the groin. 

Keith releases a pained grunt as he staggers backwards, legs trembling. “What the f--” A sharp pinch to his neck sends him crashing into Lance’s arms as the world, once again, fades to black.

 

Keith wakes up handcuffed to the table. A small puddle of drool stains the surface where his mouth had been moments before. Gross. The metal handcuffs clink together as he uses his shirt sleeve to wipe away the remaining saliva from the corner of his mouth.

“You know,” a voice states, startling Keith. He swings his gaze around the dark room; he can’t find the person it belongs to. “I thought you would be a peaceful sleeper, but it turns out you’re just as angry dreaming as when you’re awake.”

An impossibly bright light penetrates the surrounding darkness. The bulb quickly fades, leaving the two men to watch each other in its soft, yellow glow. A shadow partially hides Lance’s face, but both of his vibrant blue eyes are easily visible. Keith places his shackled hands onto the table, leaning forward to study Lance closely. A brilliant smile chases away the remaining shadows. “Welcome back,” the spy comments. 

Keith finally notices a small recording device to the left of Lance; the red recording light pulses. Multiple doodles sully the piece of paper Lance idly taps his fingers on, and a forgotten pen lays uncapped by his fingers.  

“So what will it be?” Keith finally asks, his words coarse and unfriendly. “Chinese water torture, electric shock, waterboarding....”

Lance tilts his head in confusion; he arches an eyebrow as Keith’s face remains impassive, utterly serious. “What? No, we’re just going to talk.”

Groaning, Keith arches his head back to gaze at the gray ceiling many meters above him. “I’ll take the actual torture, please.”

“This is an  _ interrogation _ , Keef.” Lance pauses for a split second; his words are softer when he speaks again. “We don’t harm prisoners.”

_ We’re not like Zarkon.  _ The unspoken statement seems to hang in the air between them. Keith nods, though scowling slightly at Lance’s new nickname for him; a weight lifts off his shoulder. He is finally safe here.

“Who are you guys?”

Lance wags a disappointed finger at him. “ _ I’m _ the one that’s asking the questions here,” he stresses before continuing, “But I guess you deserve an answer to that one since you’ll never leave this place.”

_ What a comforting thought. _

_"_ We’re Voltron.”

Keith blinks. “Never heard of you.”

“Liar; we’re the best in the business.”

So Keith has finally found the people he had been tasked to look for--okay so maybe getting captured wasn’t part of the plan and he hadn’t expected to be shot at either, but in the end, it seems to have worked out. What he and his organization have been working towards… it’s going to work. Now if only he can get at least one per--

“So what was your childhood like with Zarkon as a father?” Lance interrupts, tapping the pen against his upper lip. A gleam of humor shines in his vast ocean-like eyes. “And if you don’t answer, I’ll just have to tell you so many stories about my childhood…  _ All  _ of them. Is that the kind of torture you were hoping for?”

“I hate you so much,” Keith grumbles.

“Aww, babe, I hate you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave comments and kudos:)


	5. Chapter 5

There are gunshots somewhere in the distance. A few rooms over to be more exact. Probably the office Keith’s not allowed to go into on his own. A shot rings in the darkness as he huddles underneath his bed. His small fingers clutch onto his favorite blanket as large, fat tears roll lazily down his cheeks. The blanket itself is ripped and fraying--Keith has had it ever since he was a baby--and there is a hole large enough for his whole hand to slide through. But he just sees this imperfection as a handle, an easy way to carry around his blanket when he’s alone. To distract himself, Keith studies the faded pattern of the material, his gray eyes tracing white and yellow stars across the light blue expanse. It only calms him for a moment.

A screech punches through the thin walls as flesh smacks against flesh. 

He has to bite his lip, afraid of crying out in fear. His baby teeth are too dull to break skin and a whimper still escapes, rumbling up from somewhere deep inside his body. It consumes him; this fear is uncontrollable. 

Another gunshot; a scream of pure terror closely follows, and the next thing Keith is able to decipher through the loud sobs--both from him and the victim in the other room--is a desperate plea to stop. The noise soon settles into a dull whimper as Keith catches the sound of footsteps clapping against the hardwood. There’s a sharp click from the office door as it locks and the person walks ever closer, until his footsteps suddenly cease. 

Keith’s bedroom door creaks open; a gust of light splashes over the room, illuminating both his body and hiding place. A grunt fills the silent space as Keith’s new father bends down to drag him out from under the bed. He scuffs the hardwood floor as he tries to break free of the hold; his sneakers can barely gain any traction though. The rubber soles squeak with effort. Keith’s blunt fingernails claw against his father’s hands as he pleads for him to stop through a mess of tears and snot. To have some compassion. For mercy. Anything that will stop him from dragging Keith into that room. 

The tattered blanket is left forgotten, having been ripped from his hands and harshly thrown to a far away corner to be eaten by the shadows.

His father’s grip tightens, pinching his skin and bruising his bones. Keith knows better than to cry out now. It will only bring on more punishment later. 

The six year old Keith squeezes his eyes closed and the door is thrown open. The unmistakeable scent of urine--not from his body--drifts into his nose, imprinting itself on his memories. There’s a older man--probably no older than twenty-seven but Keith is young and honestly anyone older than ten is ancient--and his body’s curled next to the chair Keith had sat in the day before, listening to his father lecture. Blood stains the cloth seat now, along with a hand print colored red. A puddle of the maroon liquid surrounds the man; two wounds, one punctures his leg, another his arm. Multiple cuts and bruises already litter his face.

Keith can’t seem to look away, his eyes wide and glassy with unshed tears. A sea of black cloth from a sleeve whips in front of his face as his father slams the butt of a gun into the sniveling man’s head. Keith quickly scoots back, his back hitting into the closed door.  

His father’s forcing him to watch as he tortures a man to death.

A wave of water slams into Keith’s face; his eyes snap open, his mind already awake and pushing the disturbing memory behind him. He vaults off the bed, slamming the perpetrator into the wall, his fingers closing in on the person’s delicate, but familiar, throat. The glass cup clatters out of the enemy’s hands, shattering on the ground. A few tiny shards of glass softly land against Keith’s shoeless feet. His soaked bangs stick to his face, covering his eyes, and he can barely see the person he has pressed up against the wall.

Before he can growl out a few choice words, the person knees Keith in the stomach, twisting his arm behind his back and smashing his cheek up against the cold concrete.   

“Rise and shine,  _ Princesa _ ,” a mocking voice rings in his ear, one that can only belong to Lance. His warm lips are dangerously close to brushing over Keith’s earlobe. Lance’s fingers grip harshly into Keith’s forearms; he wonders if bruises will pop up along the top of his skin later. He thinks back to the previous day where Lance had sat behind one side of a table, narrating events from a childhood that had to be fake. Every memory was happy; Keith didn’t know something like that existed. When he was ten, Keith had convinced himself that every kid had a childhood like his, one filled with pain and misery and death. 

“Oh, you speak Spanish? How… exotic,” Keith mutters against the wall. The rough texture chafes his cheek.

The pressure on Keith’s skin lessens slightly as Lance’s presence begins to recede, allowing Keith to turn around and face the man who crosses his arms, hip cocked. “Hmm, you think that’s all I know. I’m fluent in German, French, Russian, Italian, and if you really want to get, how’d you put it,  _ exoctic _ … well my Latin is  _ perfectus _ .”

“Only fluent in five languages and one of them is dead? Yeah, not that impressive.”

“I’m sorry, I just didn’t want to bore you by listing out  _ all  _ the languages I’ve learned.” Lance’s fingers rhythmically tap his bicep as his lips support a crazy smile. 

Keith shakes his head. “You’re insane. But I bet you can’t beat knowing thirteen.” There’s a wicked gleam in his eyes; the challenge leaves his lips before he can rethink his words. Why is this agent able to dig under his skin? 

“Try me.”

The first language the enters his head is the first one he tries. The Mandarin slides easily off his tongue. “ _ How about this _ ?”

“ _ Too easy _ ,” Lance replies back perfectly before switching to English. “Give me another one, I can go all day.”

Keith hesitates, his tongue poking into the side of his cheek. Any good spy learns the official languages from the countries they’re most likely to get stationed in. If the spy is extraordinary--or, like Keith, has had someone forcing many languages down his throat since he was young--they know even more than what any academy could teach them. 

Part of Keith wouldn’t go as far as to say Lance is extraordinary, but there’s another part--the one that’s more logical, the one that studies strangers for weaknesses and strengths the moment he meets them--that would without hesitation.    


He doesn’t know what to choose; Lance will be able to meet him head on. Of this he is certain. 

“Already out of languages, Princesa?”

Scowling, he stares at Lance, a full blown I-have-won smile brightly plastered across the man’s face. His mind works away as he continues to gaze at Lance’s captivating features. A memory, small and meaningless, pushes forward. One language that Zarkon did not teach him, but he learned from others. He hasn’t been able to use it in a while. Keith bites his lip, recalling all the movements. “Not quite,” he says, his voice dropping in the stale air of his cell. His hands fly through a few quick motions, fingers curling in and straightening when needed to.

“What the fuck was that?” Lance’s mouth quickly pinches shut, his eyes narrowing in confusion and anger as he tries to understand what he saw. He can’t respond back though and Keith smiles.

“You don’t know ASL? American Sign  _ Language _ . How disappointing.”

“Asshole.” Lance’s lips pull back in a sneer. As his hands slide into his pockets, his posture sending off waves of defeat, something metallic jingles inside his jeans, echoing throughout the silent air. The confusion of what the origin of that sound is doesn’t linger long in Keith’s mind.  

“You’re just mad ‘cause I beat you,” Keith godes Lance further, his lips stretching across his face in a blinding smirk. 

“Yeah, yeah.” Lance waves away his statement, unconcerned. “I guess you win this round.”

“I didn’t even know this was a game.”

Lance walks dangerously close to him, each step in rhythm with Keith’s heart beat. There’s a mask on the spy’s face now; it’s dark and ominous. The light from his blue eyes has seemed to disappear, though he still manages to quirk his lips playfully. “It is  _ now _ .”

“Then you should know that I never lose.”

“This will be interesting because neither do I.”

A crippling shiver wracks his body as surprisingly warm hands latch onto his. Caught off guard because he’s locked onto Lance’s starlight gaze, he allows Lance to push his hands behind his back. Cold metal cuffs are slapped onto his wrists and now Keith wishes he paid more attention to every one of Lance’s movements instead of figuring out a way to beat Lance at his own game.  _ Stupid spy.  _ Keith’s not sure if he is mentally directing that at himself or Lance. Either way it’s true; they’re both acting too much like fools around each other. He wonders if Lance has realized it yet. Maybe he has and maybe that’s why he continues to push Keith’s buttons. 

“The Director wants to see you,” Lance says once he sees the questioning raise of Keith’s eyebrow as he tugs on the handcuffs one last time to assure their hold. 

Though the position of his arms pulled behind his back is not painful, his shoulders still ache from a restless night’s sleep. “Lucky me,” Keith responds dryly. 

He is led through a long hallway to a set of twisting stairs. Lance stands behind him, a warm hand pressing into the light cloth of his shirt, creating indents where his fingers touch his lower back. He quickly guides Keith throughout the hallways and up the stairs without saying a word. A guard walks in front of them and one brings up the rear. It seems like Lance isn’t taking any chances anymore. Not that Keith can escape now when his mission’s goal is almost in reach.    

When they reach the top of the landing, Keith internalizes every exit, every door, and every face of every person he finds on the way to wherever this director is. It’s for later use of course; he’s in no rush to get out at the moment. 

Well…. Actually, he is, but he has to make sure everyone in this organization comes with him first. By his calculation, depending on how long he has been unconscious, he has about one to two days to acquire everyone’s trust. Realizing how close the deadline actually is sets his nerves on fire and he swiftly swings his head to latch onto Lance’s gaze. But the other spy takes no notice, staring straight ahead, the tips of his fingers pressing a little harder into Keith’s skin. Directing his eyes back to the front, where the guard marches steadily along, he bites his lip, worry engraving itself into the skin around his eyes.  

A single metal door separates Keith from whoever might be on the other side. He chants to himself to stay calm.  _ Patience yields focus _ . The phrase jumps into his mind, stalling his movements. Lance grunts from behind, pushing him forward as the door opens. At first, Keith’s mind is caught up in the past, scrolling through his memories, trying to find the person who told him that phrase once. How long ago was that, a year, two? As if containing survival instincts, his memories quickly shut off, allowing him to focus. 

An older man sits in a large chair; his hair and beard are white but his blue eye shine with life. A girl, with the same white hair and eyes but sporting a much younger appearance, leans over the man’s shoulders, suggesting edits to whatever it is they’re reading.  _ His daughter perhaps _ , Keith muses, but he says nothing aloud as he stands in the room with Lance by his side. The guards have been left outside.  

Lance clears his throat rather harshly, until the older man finally gazes up. The woman continues to frown as she spies Keith, but the man has a murderous glance in his eyes that has Keith wanting to take a step back and out the door. “Director, Keith. Keith, the Director.”

“I don’t think he’s happy to see me,” Keith stage whispers. 

“I wasn’t either,” Lance retorts back, side eyeing Keith. Yet he still cracks a smile and Keith is left wondering why. 

The Director doesn’t speak for many moments while his daughter stays rigid, eyeing Keith as prey she can not let slip away. “So you’re Zarkon’s son,” he gruffs after the long pause.  

_ Zarkon’s son, Zarkon’s son, Zarkon’s son.  _ It echoes in his ears, souring his expression. “I have a name, you know,” Keith snips, deciding to be bold and foolish at the same time. 

“Yes, Agent McClain has already brought that fact to life.” A fact that the Director doesn’t seem to appreciate. Lance shrugs apologetically. 

“Look, if there’s a chance to plead my case, I have to te--”

“No.” The Director stands, his chair pushed back into the cabinet that rattles slightly upon impact. His nails, though short, dig into the mahogany of his desk. Walking around to be only a foot away from Keith, the older man stops, his eyes narrowing.

A fist wacks into his face with an excruciatingly amount of power behind it. Keith’s head snaps backwards, his legs buckling as he crumbles to the floor. His vision fades to white as his mind unscrambles itself from this frenzy. When Keith’s fuzzy vision makes a triumphant return, he is met with a ferocity on the Director’s face that he has only seen on his father. He hears feet shuffling behind him and Lance appears at his side, one hand hovering close to Keith’s shoulder and the other stretched out, as if to block the Director’s next attack. Lance’s face is wrapped in confusion, his lips twisting into a disbelieving frown. 

“My wife died because of your father!”

“Father!” the woman forcefully yells, grabbing the Director’s raised arm that prepares another strike.

Keith continues to sit on the ground, his hand straining against his cuffs to cover his bloody nose. It slowly drips down his face, pooling into the cracks between his lower and upper lip, and his tongue becomes increasingly saturated with the taste of copper and salt. His whole face throbs, the swelling having started immediately. There will be an ugly bruise across his nose later today, but at least it’s not broken. 

“Allura,” the Director’s voice softens as he speaks her name, “Zarkon has hurt us… in more ways than you can possibly imagine. This man--” he thrusts his hand in Keith’s direction “--can not be trusted. No spawn of Zarkon can.”

“I don’t trust him either, but this  _ isn’t  _ how we treat prisoners. No matter who their father is.” Allura pauses for a moment, gently leading her father behind his desk and placing him in his chair. It’s as if a curtain has lifted and the Director’s true age is revealed. Stress lines circle his eyes and corners of his mouth. “You’ve been compromised by your emotions.”  

Keith ducks his head down onto his shoulder, painstakingly wiping away the blood that has caked onto his face. At least his nose has stopped bleeding, the rush having slowed as he continues to glare at the Director. Tints of pink and maroon stain his white prisoner uniform. 

“It’s not what you think,” Keith manages to say. A wad of blood splatters the floor when he spits to clear his mouth. “He’s not my father. He just uses me as a puppet.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took me a little longer than expected but now I have somewhat of a plan for the next few chapters, so hopefully that will help me write quicker. I can't make promises though.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the chapter!
> 
> Please leave comments and kudos:)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In honor of season 3, here is a new chapter!!!

“He’s not my father,” Keith repeats, his eyes gazing down at the floor and no longer at everyone standing around him. The tension gripped onto Allura’s shoulders has not loosened, and a vivid expression of murder continues to shine brightly in the Director’s eyes. It causes Keith to gulp, bile rising slightly in his throat, and his stomach twists without his permission.

“Then what is Zarkon to you?” Lance speaks first, as everybody else seems to have been shocked into silence. “Why are you with him?”

“I guess you could say that I’m his  _ adopted  _ son, but I doubt he signed any papers.” 

His earliest memories are of Zarkon; only in his dreams can he make out shadowy shapes that could resemble his parents, but they’re only blobs to him. Equally shapeless and equally lifeless. A childhood dream of his had always been to find them, to be held in their loving arms and taken away from Zarkon’s disgusting hands, but it took Keith a long while before he was able to come to terms with the fact that they were dead.

Lance shakes his head, his blue eyes a beacon in the thick atmosphere. “You’re still his son then, legal or not. He’s taken you under his care and raised you.”

“My blood is not his blood!” Keith practically screams, shakily standing to his feet. But Lance’s harsh gaze is as strong as his grip on Keith’s shoulder, and his knees sink back to the ground. “I am  _ not  _ like him. He’s vile and ruthless and I would bet every cent I have that he killed my real parents just to take me.”

No one interrupts so Keith takes this as a welcoming sign to continue. “I have no allegiance to him. I owe him nothing.”

This time Lance lowers himself to Keith’s height, staring into Keith’s eyes, searching for truths or lies. Sucking in a startled gasp, Keith’s pulse races as he feels Lance’s soft, warm breath wash over his battered form. He’s telling the truth though, so he should have nothing to worry about. Energy buzzes within him, trapped and unable to be released; his fingers tap on his skin with anticipation. The handcuffs continue to score his wrists in dark red lines. 

“So why did you still obey his orders? The reports paint you in a light that’s just as dark as Zarkon’s.”

A weak smile weaves its way onto Keith’s face and a humorless chuckle escapes his lips. “I may have pulled a trigger before, but so have you, Agent McClain. Though to be fair, half of those accounts in those reports you have are fake. Zarkon wanted to build up my reputation fast so his enemies would fear me. No one would question Zarkon even if they doubted it.”

Lance barely blinks, and unless Keith’s hope is reading too far into the emotions that faintly flicker across his eyes, it seems that this agent is starting to believe in him. Even if it’s just a tiny bit.  

“Besides,” Keith continues, “By staying in Zarkon’s good graces, I was able to be recruited by another organization within his ranks. They’ve been trying to take down Zarkon for decades but haven’t been able to station anyone close enough to him. That’s where I come in.” 

“And you expect me to believe you?” Lance asks, raising an eyebrow after Keith finishes his tale. 

“I do.”

By this point, Allura steps forward. Unlike Lance though, she does not squat down in front of Keith, preferring to loom over him like the prisoner he is. A grim expression is laced onto her dark skin and her thin eyebrows furrow as she continues to stare at Keith. “What’s the name of this…  _ organization _ ?”

Her tone is patronizing, Keith can easily pick that out. “The Blade of Marmora.”

“Never heard of them, and that’s all I needed to know.” She saunters back over to her father, who has yet to say a word. 

“Wait--”  

“You have more to say?” Lance asks surprised. “Please just spit it out already, we’re on the edge of our seats.”

Sarcasm is a great look on him.

Keith scowls at the agent. “I came to find someone and most importantly to say a bomb has been planted in your base. Apparently, you have a double agent.”

“That is highly unlikely. No to mention that you expect us to believe the likes of you over agents that have been with us since we began this organization.” Allura crosses her arms, her fingernails digging into her soft flesh.

“I do,” Keith repeats for the second time that day, “I know this is a lot to absorb right now, but you have to trust me. You have to get everyone out of this building; you--”

Allura’s hand smacks across Keith’s face, her sharp fingernails slicing into the skin near his mouth. For the second time that day, blood pools on his lips. “I don’t take orders from you.” Her enraged gaze whips away from Keith as she calls out to the guards stationed outside. “Bring him back to his cell, now!”

Jerked to his feet, Keith desperately tries to plead one more time. “Please, please you have to believe me; you’re all going to die!”

The last thing he witnesses as the door slams in his face is Lance’s worried gaze and a frown marring his handsome features.  

* * *

A few minutes after Keith leaves, Lance turns to his fellow agent and Director. He growls slightly at Allura and Alfor equally; how can they stand to hurt a prisoner like that, especially since they weren’t technically interrogating him. Yes, Lance hates Zarkon and the Galra as much as the next person in their spy organization, but they should know how to control their emotions. 

“I think we should trust him,” Lance says at last, crossing his arms.

The Director doesn’t necessarily slam a fist down on his desk, but the motion is implied in the glare he sends Lance instead. His nails dig into the glossy wood, and the mission file he had been previously looking over is a little crumpled at the corner. “Absolutely not.”

“But what if there is a bomb?” Lance begins to elaborate on his statement, walking closer to Alfor. He places two palms flat on the desk as he leans forward to make sure he has the Director’s and Allura’s full attention. Though he addresses both of them, Lance’s eyes are only on Alfor. “We have to get everyone out at least. Best case scenario: the bomb doesn’t explode and no one gets hurt and we know he’s a fucking liar. Worst case scenario: we don’t listen, the bomb explodes, and most of us, maybe all of us, are killed.”

This should be an easy decision. It’s always better to be safe than sorry, especially when other lives are on the line. Currently though, it feels like Lance is pleading for everyone’s life to be spared along with Keith’s. Allura had been right earlier when she said Alfor had been compromised by his emotions, but now it seems that Allura has fallen into a state of hypocrisy, slapping Keith which she had to stop her father from doing.

Both of them shouldn’t be involved in this case and the prisoner; the rage plainly hidden behind their similar colored eyes prevents Lance from voicing this thought aloud. Maybe after the meeting wraps up, Lance will talk to Shiro. He would be more willing to listen, and, most importantly, he would understand where Lance is coming from.

Lance highly doubts that this conversation will conclude with the answer he desperately wants to hear. 

“And what if he’s the one who planted the bomb?” Allura inquires, her accent clipped and tone full of pain. 

She does make a point, Lance thinks, but it’s also unlikely. “How? In his cell? Then he would die along with us. Not the smartest plan, though he does seem like that type that doesn’t think thing through.” He taps a finger on his lips, wondering if there is any other way to get this through their thick skulls. “And even if he did, that means we  _ still  _ have to evacuate.”

“I still don’t trust him, and I don’t understand how you can suggest that we can.” 

“ _ I’m _ the one who doesn’t understand,” Lance begins to argue, his voice rising higher and gaining volume as his eyes blaze in unwanted furry directed at his commander. “Why can’t you just force everyone out of this building for a few days? Get a bomb squad in here to search. It’s not that difficult!”

At this point, Lance flails his arms around, as if hoping that will prove how important his advice is. He groans as the resolve in Alfor’s and Allura’s eyes never wavers. Are they even listening to him now?

Alfor rises from his chair, standing tall and staring directly at Lance. “You’re treading on insubordination, Agent McClain. I suggest you think carefully before you speak next.”

“Father, maybe Lance doe--”

“No!” Alfor spits, this time actually slamming his hands down on his desk. The vibrations rattle a few pens stored in a cup, and the legs of the desk squeak in protest. “I will not listen to that spawn of Zarkon. We have never had a double agent and we never will.”

Anger tickles at Lance’s fingers and toes and every other part of his body. He has never felt more ashamed to be under the command of this man. “Fine! You know what? Fine! Do whatever the fuck you want, because clearly you don’t care about anybody in this building including Allura.” Lance has gone too far, but he can’t seem to stop. “If you’re not going to do what’s right then I’m going to try to.”

He catches Allura’s eyes as she nods, a wordless permission. 

He storms out of that office before Alfor can fire him or seriously give him a lesson in proper etiquette on how to talk around a commanding officer. Body screaming with energy, Lance races off to find Shiro, knowing most of the agents will listen to him and get the fuck out of this base. 

Lance just hopes he’s not too late. 

* * *

Allura wants to stop Lance during his outburst, but after it had all been said, and as the words linger in the air well after Lance has left, she’s glad that she didn’t. Her father can’t be trusted to handle Zarkon’s case anymore, and part of her knows that she can’t be part of this ongoing mission either. 

She had gone to far when she slapped Keith, and for that she is truly sorry. That doesn’t mean she’ll apologize if she ever sees that man again; he deserved what he got, and she hopes it stings. 

“Father, I really think you should listen to Lance.” Allura places a comforting hand on her father’s shoulder. Frowning as she feels his racing heartbeat pulse through her fingertips, she begins to massage his shoulders.

She will never trust this Keith person, in fact she is still dead set on the possibility that it was him who planted the bomb if there even is one hidden in this base, but Lance is right, in regard to everyone’s safety. This is the one time Allura has truly ever disagreed with her father.

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” he mutters, eyes flickering over a week old mission report  

“But--”

“No, Allura, let’s discuss something else. Something that doesn’t leave a foul taste in my mouth.”

Her father’s eyes are not necessarily harsh but they are stern. She lightly growls at her father’s stupidity but abides to his request. “Pidge has been repeatedly asking for another hacking job.”

“Of course, of course, our agents have been sitting around with nothing to do,” he flippantly says, chucking the mission report into a box behind him. “I’ll see if I can find one for her.”

By this point, Allura would have already disobeyed her father’s orders, knowing how important the lives of her teammates are. They’re precious, unique, and irreplaceable, and her father should know this better than anybody. At least she is confident that Lance is taking care of everything, but it pains her. That should be her job; instead she had to thrust it onto Lance. She wraps her long, silvery, white hair into a tight bun to quell her shaking hands.  

Her father pushes his chair away from his desk, preparing to stand, when his eyes flicker down, distracted by something. Mouth opening in shock and fear, he scampers out from behind his desk. He doesn’t have to use words for Allura to know what he had seen. 

She barely has time to blink as her father harshly shoves her out of the room. Allura slams into the adjacent wall, clawing around for an escape hatch. She’s almost too late, and as she shouts for her father to run, a blast rips apart the room and the corridor and the level below them. Wrenching the door closed, Allura catches one last glimpse of her father, his figure engulfed in flames. 

She allows many minutes to pass before she climbs higher and higher in the escape hatch. The underground structure shakes around her, causing her to momentarily slip off the ladder, and her palm is sliced open on an exposed nail. As dust and smoke and the stench of a fire burning all around her begin to invade her little world inside the hatch, a gush of silent tears stream down her face.  

_ Keith will pay for this. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg that season blew me away; it was sooo good and every Klance moment was precious. It's probably my favorite season now. God, I just loved everything about it. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the chapter! I am so sorry for the long wait.
> 
> Please leave comments and kudos:)


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